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When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold.
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My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the
rough canvas cover of the mattress.
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She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother.
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Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.
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| I prop myself up on one elbow. |
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There’s enough light in the bedroom to see them.
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My little sister, Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my
mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together.
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In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so
beaten-down.
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Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose
for which she was named.
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My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.
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Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest cat.
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Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting
squash.
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Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat
matched the bright flower.
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He hates me. Or at least distrusts me.
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Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I
tried to drown him in a bucket when Prim brought him home.
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Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas.
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The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed.
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But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay.
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| It turned out okay. |
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My mother got rid of the vermin and he’s a born mouser.
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| Even catches the occasional rat. |
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Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails.
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| He has stopped hissing at me. |
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Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to
love.
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| Listen 5 times |
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